


Tension

by INMH



Series: Merry Month of Masturbation Fills (2018) [7]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Post-Game(s), Resist Ending, Sexual Content, Smut, Strong Language, kind of fucked up relationship tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-01 03:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Post-Game, Resist Ending. It almost seems like Joseph wants to make you uncomfortable. Fem!Deputy/Joseph.





	Tension

In the first weeks after the end of the world, you learn that Joseph dislikes three things above all else:  
  
Blasphemy, the United States government, and wearing a fucking shirt like a normal person.  
  
Of course, the answer to that last one is in the question: Joseph Seed is about as far from normal as you’re gonna find and you know it. And if you’re being perfectly honest with yourself, not wearing a shirt is hardly the weirdest thing he’s done so far, before or after the apocalypse.  
  
But it is _weirdly_ annoying.  
  
You’re not sure why, at first. You’re not sure why, of all things, it’s the fact that Joseph doesn’t seem interested in covering himself up that’s slowly pushing on the button that is your temper; after all, this is a man who prays and sings and does everything in his overestimated power to convert you to what is now, effectively, a one-man religion. And he really does seem to think he can break you down with time.  
  
Naturally, you think there’s a better chance of God strolling into this godforsaken bunker and personally shaking your hand.  
  
Joseph doesn’t keep you tied up anymore, because he seems to accept that clamping down too hard on you is going to drive you to do something crazy- like, for instance, slitting his throat in his sleep. So he doesn’t tie you up, doesn’t confine you to one room, doesn’t attempt to physically attack you or intimidate you; he just irritates the ever-loving fuck out of you by never speaking a single sentence that doesn’t have something to do with God.  
  
But somehow, it’s the shirt thing that’s getting you.  
  
You’re not proud to admit that you find Joseph attractive, that if he was just some normal guy with his shirt off that you’d take in the sight gratefully and tuck it away for later, maybe imagine what he’d look like without pants too. Indeed, if anyone asked you directly, you’d deny it and maybe call them an asshole just to keep them from asking again. But the truth is that you do kind of find Joseph attractive, and that, you eventually realize, is the root of the problem: Things are tense between you, your blood’s hot with irritation and grief and frustration, and now you’re in close quarters with an attractive man that you have very _strong_ feelings toward.  
  
They may not be positive feelings, but you do feel them strongly.  
  
Very strongly.  
  
Maybe a little too strongly.  
  
_No. No,_ you think during your short, weekly shower (water had to be conserved) when the urge hits you and your hand slips between your thighs and the first thing you think of is Joseph-fucking-Seed.  
  
_I am **not** going to think about him._  
  
But you do.  
  
You remember that time when Faith dragged you into the Bliss, and Joseph had walked up _so goddamn close to you_ and touched you, spoke to you, and you shiver to recall it now with your hand between your legs, rubbing at your clit. You think of the way those black jeans ride low on his hips and show off the tattoos, the scars. You remember seeing one large one on his hip that curved under the jeans, and briefly imagining what was beneath before kicking yourself because you were leading a handcuffed cult-leader out of his church.  
  
_Fuck, this is fucked up, **I’m** fucked up._  
  
Your only consolation is that no one knows, and no one ever will.  
  
When you’re done you throw a towel around yourself and open the bathroom door, only to find Joseph standing on the other side. “Jesus!” You hiss.  
  
Joseph’s expression becomes thunderous. “Do not blaspheme,” he growls, leaning in close to you (too close too close _way way way_ too close for what you were just doing during that shower) and glaring at you dangerously.  
  
“You scared me,” You growl back. “Why the hell were you standing there?”  
  
“I was waiting for you to come out.”  
  
You assume ‘so I could use the shower’ is the full version of that sentence.  
  
“You couldn’t have waited down the hall?”  
  
He doesn’t respond, and you’re suddenly very aware that you are wearing a towel ( _only_ a towel) next to a shirtless man that you just shamefully masturbated to a few minutes ago. A man who is looking at you suspiciously, like he suspects you were doing _something_ in the bathroom that he ought to know about. You don’t know what on God’s not-so-green-anymore Earth he thinks you might have been doing that would concern him, but you really, _really_ hope that ‘masturbating while thinking of you’ isn’t at the top of the list.  
  
“I’m getting dressed,” You mutter, and push past him towards the bedroom. You can feel his stare right between your shoulder blades as you disappear into the bedroom; there are two, technically, but for some reason he just _has_ to sleep in the same one as you. It was unsettling at first, but you’ve gotten used to it; there hasn’t been an incident thus far, and despite his other insane behavior, Joseph has never attempted to do anything to you as you slept.  
  
That you know of, anyway.  
  
That night it gets worse, because Joseph is five feet away in the cot that he dragged into the room a few nights after the apocalypse, after the end of the world, and you can see his chest rising and falling as he sleeps. You think of how _easy_ it would be to just slide into bed and wake him up, proposition him, and your body burns a little at the idea; it’s too easy to picture yourself straddling him, touching his chest without inhibition.  
  
_What the fuck am I thinking?_  
  
The only thing you can explain this with is that sometimes you go through phases where you’re just hornier than usual- and also, you’ve been trapped in close quarters with a man who is, politely put, pretty fucking _intense._ Emotions run high, and when you can’t punch someone in the face, sometimes those emotions get turned into something less acceptable. Normally, if you were at home and not planning on spending the next seven years in a bunker, you would do the perfectly normal thing and pull out your vibrator, maybe watch some dirty videos on the internet and make yourself orgasm a few times. For obvious reasons, that’s not an option here.  
  
And besides, a vibrator would be a bit too loud in such a silent room.  
  
Your hand slides into your pants without much thought, and you press your face into your pillow and try to make sure your breathing isn’t too loud. With that same, hopeless shame you felt in the shower, you imagine riding Joseph, imagine him crushing you to his chest and fucking you with vigor. When you come, it’s with a hand pressed over your mouth, awkwardly rolled onto your side, turned away from Joseph.  
  
At some point before you fall asleep, you feel his gaze between your shoulder-blades again and are too cowardly to turn and see if it’s just your imagination.  
  
The next day, however, Joseph spends praying, and you get concerned.  
  
You find that the vast majority of the time when Joseph prays, it’s a fairly reasonable (if not aggravating and repetitive) exercise- he says what he needs to say and is done. Sometimes it’s a passive-aggressive prayer for your soul, and other times it’s praising God for His infinite mercy (You’ve learned that ‘mercy’ has a different definition in Eden’s Gate), but it’s largely harmless and not unexpected of anyone who claims to be particularly religious.  
  
Other times, though- rarer times that have become even scarcer as time has progressed in the bunker- Joseph develops an unsettling sort of fervor, a sort of mania that puts you on edge. When that mania rises, he prays loudly, paces the living area violently, waves his bible at the ceiling, and completely ignores you when you try to talk to him; which you don’t, because in these moments you maybe feel a bit frightened of Joseph, and are reminded of just how easily things could go wrong for no other reason than that he’s having some sort of psychological episode.  
  
You stay out of his way for the day, only venturing into the kitchen and bathroom once or twice, regretting the fact that there are almost no doors in the bunker to muffle the sound of his frantic supplications to God. You hear him pleading for patience, for strength, for mercy, for guidance, and he never says for _what_ , which makes you unbelievably paranoid that he heard you or saw you or guessed at what you were doing last night. It’s only just now occurred to you that being trapped in a bunker with a reasonably attractive woman (not to toot your own horn) might be having the same effect on Joseph that he’s having on you.  
  
Yeah, that feels like something you ought to have figured out sooner.  
  
Whoops.  
  
There are clocks in the bunker, and you’ve counted twelve hours by the time you stop hearing Joseph’s cries through the walls. You wait a solid twenty minutes to be sure before creeping out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the living room-slash-kitchen, wondering if he’s passed out from exhaustion or dehydration. Evidently he never turned on the light, because the room is bathed in that eerie blue light from the fish tank; it illuminates Joseph, who is lying on his stomach on the couch, unconscious.  
  
Once it passes, the mania doesn’t come back for a while.  
  
But given the circumstances, you’re still uneasy.  
  
You carefully turn on the normal lights in the room; Joseph doesn’t stir. In proper lighting, he looks pale, exhausted even in sleep, and that’s not surprising because in twelve hours you’re almost one-hundred percent certain that he didn’t stop to eat or drink. Twelve hours of screaming at God probably have him feeling like shit, and you figure he’ll sleep through the night.  
  
_Maybe I should get him a blanket?_ Maybe it sounds needlessly sentimental, considering whom Joseph is and what he’s done, but you’ve found that maintaining some degree of civility goes a long way in preserving peace. After all, needlessly creating friction with a man whose family you’ve killed, while trapped for the foreseeable future with him, doesn’t sound like a good idea from any angle.  
  
For no particular reason at all, you settle a hand on the small of Joseph’s back, below the Eden’s Gate tattoo and right on top of where PRIDE has been scratched into his back; the sharp E is bisected by his spine. Whose bright idea was that, to carve something in the incredibly thin skin over a guy’s spine? Because there’s no way Joseph could have done it himself, no matter how determined. It galls you to think that if the knife had pressed just a little deeper, Eden’s Gate may never have come to pass the way it did.  
  
Your hand touches his skin for no more than a few seconds, fifteen at the absolute most; but when you pull it away, Joseph stirs, and suddenly his hand is on your wrist, holding you in place. You’re surprised, and more than a little alarmed, and so you don’t move, don’t try to pull your hand away, and you don’t speak a word.  
  
Joseph rolls over onto his back, keeping a steady grip on your wrist as he does. Those deep blue eyes of his stare into yours, but his expression is blank. The tension is fairly killing you.  
  
“Deputy,” He says, and his voice is hoarse.  
  
You say nothing.  
  
“God has spoken to me.”  
  
A few smart-aleck responses come to mind, but they refuse to leave your lips with Joseph this close, with him looking at you the way he is. “You should probably go to bed,” is eventually what you come up with, trying to sound unimpressed yet not completely disrespectful of Joseph’s God-Talk, because that won’t end well. “ _I_ should go to bed,” even though you’re not tired because you’ve spent the day in one spot listening to Joseph rant.  
  
But Joseph’s grip on your wrist stays. It’s a firm grip, but not tight enough to be painful and you could probably break it if you wanted to, if you needed to. But you don’t. “I know what you think of me, Deputy,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “You think I’m insane; you think I’m a lunatic with delusions of grandeur.”  
  
_Yes._  
  
_Yes, that’s pretty much it._  
  
_You hit the nail on the head._  
  
“But I know what else you think of me too.”  
  
“I-” Your heart nearly stops when his free hand cups your cheek, thumb sliding just under your eye. Panic strikes you, and Joseph must feel the tension in your muscles, the tell-tale twitch of alarm, because in one fluid motion he lets go of your wrist, sits up, and curls an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close.  
  
Joseph leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispers, “If you yearn for my touch so badly, Deputy, then all you need to do is ask for it.” You can’t help it: A huge, noticeable shudder runs through your body, like you’ve been dipped in ice. “You needn’t rely on…” His hand slides over yours, squeezes your fingers, “…lesser methods of finding satisfaction.”  
  
_howdoesheknowhowdoesheknowHOWTHEFUCKDOESHEKNOW-_  
  
Oh God, maybe he _is_ a prophet.  
  
Your hand finds his chest without thinking, and it’s fascinating, because Joseph doesn’t look smug, doesn’t grin like he’s won a victory- he looks confident, as he always does because that’s what life must be like when God is, apparently, literally whispering in your ear. But if he views this as a tally in his box, a sign that he’s wearing down your defenses, he actually has the good grace not to rub it in.  
  
“Do you need relief, Deputy?” Joseph asks, fingers feather-light on your arms. “Can I help you in some way?”  
  
Fuck, no, there’s an angle, there _has_ to be an angle, because Joseph Seed belongs to a religion of his own making that he _genuinely_ believes in, and that religion says ‘celibacy until marriage’. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time a cult leader engaged in hypocrisy about one of their rules, and for all you know, those rules were officially null and void now that the Collapse had come.  
  
_So what?! So what?! He’s a murderer! He’s killed people, tortured people, manipulated people and made their lives a living nightmare! How the fuck can you justify **anything** but hatred and disgust towards him? Are you insane?!_  
  
You open your mouth to respond to him, and as you do, you pull back a bit; your hand reaches out to steady yourself and it lands on Joseph’s lap, which-  
  
Which-  
  
Fuck. Fuck.  
  
He’s hard.  
  
Fuck, he’s _really_ hard. You can see the line of his dick through those fucking tight black jeans and damn it damn it God _fucking_ damn it-  
  
_Oh, who’s gonna fucking **know?**_  
  
“Yeah,” you groan, and press your hand down between his legs just for the satisfaction of catching him off-guard, hearing him moan, feeling him jerk up towards you.  
  
You both lose your pants, and you end up doing exactly what you’d fantasized about the night before: Riding Joseph’s cock, hands sliding over and around skin that you’d seen but never touched. Reality is so much better than the fantasy, Joseph’s cock is so much better than your fingers, and you try not to think of the people who are dead because of him because you are possibly two of a very small number of people left in the world, so you may as well do whatever.  
  
Eventually you come with a loud, strangled noise, and you cry out from hypersensitivity through several more thrusts before Joseph comes too. He pulls you up, crushes you to his chest the way he did in your fantasy, and you feel yourself unbalancing slightly from paranoia, from the possibility that Joseph is psychic or clairvoyant or- may God have mercy on you all- an actual, serious prophet of God, who hears His voice and acts upon His word.  
  
You shelve that distressing question for later, press your nose into Joseph’s shoulder, not as displeased as you could be that you can still feel him inside you.  
  
“I will always look after you,” he whispers in that hypnotic way of his that makes him sound _so sincere_ even when you know he’s full of shit. “You need only ask for it.”  
  
“Thanks,” you mutter.  
  
_I will **never** ask again._  
  
(Of course you will.)  
   
-End


End file.
